| Friday, October 2, 2020

Dear Friend, 

“You know, Maman,” said my daughter Maria, putting down her i-pad. “Perhaps you should take a break from lecturing. I loved learning about the French Revolution and the desecration of the royal tombs, but…Why don’t you write about decorating the chateau?” With that in mind, I thought about Drouot…and, naturally, le grand Edouard.

 From the outside, Drouot is a glass, metal and concrete box, built when France was floundering through the challenging aesthetics of the 1970s, torn between being French and trying to come up with a French version of being American.

Inside the Paris headquarters for French auction sales, things don’t immediately get better. The concrete slab interior might have been inspired by an airport lounge in the old Soviet Union. And similar to many products of central planning, Drouot is utilitarian in appearance only. Its staircases could have been designed by Escher and the elevator often doesn’t work. 

But behind its dented metal doors, of an inimitable shade between brown and grime, awaits another world. Drouot is the kingdom of the material object, le royaume du materiel. 

Here are hundreds of things…dinner plates with royal monograms, old satin curtains, medieval stained glass, worm-eaten wooden saints, tapestries of queens and castles, paintings by someone’s great-aunt and by Rembrandt, stamp collections, ivory crucifixes, Roman coins, books… objets de culte, objets d’art, objects of everyday life through the centuries, of culture high and low…tawdry and beautiful, perfect and perfectly horrible.

Drouot closes in August, like every business in France -- except mobile frîtes trucks along the autoroutes and restaurants by the sea. It reopens in September, as the city shakes awake from its summer slumber. So, on an early autumn morning, le grand Edouard and I met for coffee and a crepe on rue Richelieu close to the auction house. It was Edouard who first introduced me to this Aladdin’s cave. 

 Le grand Edouard is a courtier, a specialist in small glass and metal objects, from pre-Roman times to the beginning of the Renaissance. Of course, being around Drouot all day long, and being naturally observant and curious, his eye is frequently caught by other booty – and his little garret in Paris is packed with fascinating objects. You can’t let yourself get too distracted, though, or you could be knocked out by a set of sharply pointed Gothic lanterns swinging from the rafters. 

 Le grand Edouard is the godfather of our own Edward, and practically a blood relative. He was born in the house of my mother-in-law, and loved like one of her own. Very tall, near-sighted, handsome and amusing, Edouard is un grand frère, as the French say, to our own children. He taught them to make bonfires in summer, around which they still lounge until far too late at night, having long conversations and staring up at the constellations.  He taught them to watch birds, to examine the intricate patterns of a butterfly’s wings, and to look for insects in the grass and on tree leaves. He showed them how to fish in our pond, and how to shoot with a bow and arrow. He taught them to cook calf’s liver over the kitchen fire and bake potatoes on the hearth. And he gave them objects and taught them to see and feel the texture of old ivory, of sharkskin, of Cordoba leather, of steel and hand-wrought iron. 

Le grand Edouard lights up a cigarette, like the most of the other patrons enjoying the start of the day in this dingy little café decorated with blue and mustard Moroccan tile from the 1970s. Now that it’s illegal to smoke inside a commercial establishment in France, I’m almost nostalgic for the purplish haze and the slightly sickening odor. And looking up at the ceiling as I go inside for another coffee, I’m cheered to see the yellow patina that colors the walls and ceilings of every authentic old café and bar in France. 

The doors of Drouot were ready to open.  Edouard stubs out his cigarette. Today we’re going to scour for interesting objects to embellish Chateau de Courtomer. We have no plans…it could be an old croquet set. A carved backscratcher, made by a sailor out of bone. Another painting, although I’m trying to be disciplined. Perhaps a very comfy velvet sofa for the fumoir, the “smoking room,” or little study, that is tucked into the end of the east wing. Le grand Edouard is in favor of that, I’m afraid. But no matter… the next time you come to Chateau de Courtomer, there will be something new for you to see! And next week, I’ll tell you more about our finds at Drouot…

 A très bientôt, au Chateau de Courtomer,

P.S. We are heading into one of the prettiest times of the year in our corner of Normandy… red and russet apples are hanging from the young trees…honey is being harvested from the hives used for pollination in the orchards…and our cattle, in the pasture behind the Chateau, are enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun before their return to the stabulations for the winter.